


Solace

by Sanj



Category: 1602
Genre: M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanj/pseuds/Sanj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And now you know," Summerisle sighed, "why I don't drink rum."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

Even with the combined skills of Javier and his students, it was no mean feat to build a new school, new furnishings. Much had been brought, but they had left in a hurry. "Three removes is as good as a fire," Henry McCoy had sighed, and put himself to trying to restore the grandeur of Javier's library.

They fell into smaller teams quite naturally. Hal and Robert were fast friends, well used to working together, and young Peter Parquagh was usually following Miss Dare around with lighter work, or assisted Javier if their master needed to get from one place to another. Unsurprisingly, Werner had been set to work on the roof. More surprisingly, Summerisle -- who said he was good only for pounding in nails -- had joined him.

Werner was no Jean Grey. But whenever he worked at Summerisle's elbow, he imagined he could almost feel grief emanating from him, easier and less controlled than the deadly light that shone from his eyes. The labor was monotonous; and in its rhythm, Werner found himself understanding why Summerisle had chosen it. They spoke but little, and never about Jean, but there was a sympathy between them.

Werner knew he was doing little better than Summerisle. Though his grief was less, perhaps, than his fellow's, his embarrassment and shame were nearly overwhelming. Summerisle had at least loved a real person; Werner had been in love, or growing to love, a pretty fiction. One every other man of Javier's had seen through easily.

John Grey. Werner had been naive and foolish, and damned for far more than being witchbreed.

Their silently shared misery went on for weeks, until finally Robert and Hal came and sat down with them one evening, in front of the new hearth they'd all lain. "Here," said Hal, and handed them both a tankard of rum, pouring some for himself and Robby as well. Werner sipped it; the first taste was foul, but warming. The second was better.

"I don't drink spirits," Summerisle frowned, looking down into his mug.

"It's medicinal," Robby said. "Drink. You need it." Werner was surprised to see Summerisle obey. They sat for a while, the four of them, in front of the fire, and spoke lightly of Peter and his new abilities, which grew daily. Werner shifted after a while, his wings growing cramped.

"May I?" Hal asked, his hand hovering over Werner's left wing. It was easy to see the scientific curiosity in Hal's eyes, and Werner was frankly surprised their clever and gentle beast had held out so long before he'd asked. Werner shrugged, trying to keep his face carefully casual, as Hal's great paws ever-so-gently touched his feathers.

He would not, would _not_ look at Summerisle, who knew, after all, that Werner was a boy-lover.

Of sorts. Of very unusual boys.

"How extraordinary," Hal said, bowing his head at Werner in thanks. Robby, too, put up a hand, and touched his right wing. His fingers were cool and soft; Werner suppressed a shiver.

"Go to bed," Summerisle told them then, his voice seeming to come from the bottom of his tankard. Hal and Robby shrugged and obeyed, used to following Summerisle's quiet commands. Werner didn't move; they sat there yet a while.

Without asking, Summerisle leaned forward and touched the tip of Werner's left wing. "Can you feel it?" he asked. "When we touch you?"

Werner nodded, his face tight. Every touch had been far beyond the graze of an arm; it went straight into the center of him, as though each of his fellows had touched his prick instead. "intensely," he managed, swallowing some of his rum. It was very exactly what he needed; Robby and Hal had been right.

Summerisle leaned forward, then, and took hold of Werner's shoulder. "Thank you," he said, and Werner must have looked as confused as he felt by the gesture. "You haven't been trying to get me to talk about her," Summerisle explained. "Everyone else has."

"I shouldn't be expected to want to dwell on John either," he said, and swore under his breath before correcting, "Jean."

"I think it's good that someone should remember how well she played at being a boy," Summerisle said with good grace. "Brave and clever of her. They wanted her to stay home, in skirts. She had none of it. Part of her became John, too. Someone should remember that."

"You can't be that generous," Werner said. "Not when you know how deep my feelings were."

"Did she kiss you?" Summerisle asked. It was rhetorical, and they both knew it.

"Of course not," Werner said anyway.

"Then I expect I ought to be generous," Summerisle said. "I knew her longer, and better, and had her love returned. You were still at a distance from her -- she had not told you --"

"She could fly," Werner broke in, trying to explain "The first person I ever met who knew what that was like. I didn't care of she was boy or girl, human or witchbreed, angel or demon. She understood that part of me." _And no one else can,_ he thought, but left it unsaid.

"It's amazing, what you can do," Summerisle said. "I was terrified, that night. When you carried me." He glanced down into his near-empty tankard. "Don't tell Javier that, if you please."

"I shan't," Werner said, "if you don't tell him --"

"That you were fond of our pretty boy? I expect he knows. Keep your hands off of young Parquagh and you'll be all right." Summerisle stood, a little weak in the knees. Werner leapt to help him, and they stood there awkwardly, draped on each other, and Summerisle laughed his quiet laugh. They righted each other, and Werner stepped away, wondering if he could fly in his slightly drunken state, or if he oughtn't to risk it.

"Werner," said Summerisle, and he turned his head to meet Werner's lips, just the slightest touch. Werner couldn't help it; he leaned into the kiss, as easy as a slow loop in the sky. "Don't fly yet. If I'm drunk, then you must be as well."

"And you're drunk enough to kiss me," Werner said, unable to keep from teasing him a little. They'd all started this, with all their touching of his wings, and now Summerisle had kissed him, and he was aroused beyond endurance. "Are you any more drunk than that?"

"And now you know," Summerisle sighed, "why I don't drink rum." And Werner understood him, their shared loneliness acting as translator. Summerisle was witchbreed, as obviously with his demon's eyes as Werner was with his angel's wings.

Werner knew, without being told, that Summerisle would have given his love to any teammate; Jean had been the most loveable, perhaps, but also the most acceptable. And this made his temptation almost overwhelming. He could return that shy kiss, deepen it; Werner was naive, but he knew something of men, and knew all of what he could give to Summerisle, tall and muscled and as hungry for touch as Werner himself.

"Drink twice as much water as you have rum," Werner counseled instead, "and try, when you sleep, to remember this." He leaned in and kissed Summerisle then, long and unabashed. "If you still want this when you're sober, come and find it. I'll not say no." He folded his wings around Summerisle, just for a moment, and watched his expressive mouth smile in wonder. Werner wished, not for the first time, that he could see his friend's eyes.

"You don't think I will." Summerisle's slight frown showed in his voice.

"No," Werner said, "I don't. But we're friends, regardless, yes?" At Summerisle's nod, Werner clasped his hand in his own, and bade him good-night, and took to the sky. A little wobbly, perhaps, but there was a great deal of sky to hold him up.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kayim in the Yuletide 2007 challenge -- but it's really all Neotoma's fault.


End file.
